


The City Holds Together

by a_big_apple



Series: The City Holds Together [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Big Bang Challenge, Blow Jobs, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Post-Promised Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2018-08-09 02:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7783690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/pseuds/a_big_apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for fmabigbang 2011.  In the days following the eclipse, Al sleeps like it's going out of style, Roy gets into some embarrassing trouble that Ed's very willing to get him out of, and Breda suffers a loss that puts everyone's plans for healing via the Philosopher's Stone on hold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this story is by the spectacular bob_fish! See her illustrations [here](http://bob-fish.livejournal.com/58058.html)!

_But in associations for exchange this sort of justice does hold men together—reciprocity [antipeponthos] in accordance with a proportion and not on the basis of precisely equal return. **For it is by proportionate requital that the city holds together.** Men seek to return either evil for evil—and if they cannot do so, think their position mere slavery—or good for good—and if they cannot do so there is no exchange, but it is by exchange that they hold together. This is why they give a prominent place to the temple of the Graces—to promote the requital of services; **for this is characteristic of grace—we should serve in return one who has shown grace to us, and should another time take the initiative in showing it.**  
  
–Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics V. v., trans. W.D. Ross_  
  
  
  
It’s the middle of a restless, wakeful night when Roy realizes he is falling very rapidly in lust—and it’s not with the beautiful, strong, available, and probably willing-as-she’ll-ever-get woman he can hear stirring in the next bed over.  
  
Oh, he loves Hawkeye fiercely, there’s no question. He always has. Losing her to that blade across the neck would have been worse, for him, than losing the entire battle—at least if the world had ended, Roy would’ve been dead too. He chose to save the world, martyr that he is, and got lucky when they both came out the other side alive, if not unscathed.  
  
It should be her who slides into his dreams naked and flushed, like when they were awkward teenagers in her father’s dilapidated mansion and Roy was first tasting want, feeling it in his own stomach instead of just seeing it all around him in the patrons of his mother’s club. Master Hawkeye’s house was so absent of people, of drinks and laughter and flirting and sex, and it was as if finally outside of that din he could hear his own blood pumping south for the first time. But he knew too much of charm and games and money changing hands and the snippets of sound he couldn’t avoid hearing, and Riza seemed to know absolutely nothing of men and women at all. It seemed indecent to picture her behind his eyelids when he touched himself, her somber eyes and rare tiny smile and outgrown clothes. When his subconscious saw fit to plunk her down in his dreamscapes, she did not quite look herself; curvier, and not at all somber, and once or twice she turned into one of his sisters, which confused and shamed him even as he woke in wet sheets.  
  
Of course, she grew, and so did he. Genetics gave her lovely apple breasts and an hourglass curve; war gave her strong shoulders and pleasant definition in her arms and thighs and calves, and he knew enough now to appreciate both the source and the sight of her subtle musculature. But he hadn’t dreamed about her in Ishval, and hasn’t since. He’s had too many other things to dream about.  
  
Which is why he is baffled and more than a little embarrassed to wake flushed and hard as diamond with the ghost heat of Edward Elric burning his skin.  
  
Roy hasn’t dreamed someone inside him since Maes, back at the Academy (because even in his dreams he could never control Maes). It’s been over a decade since then, and now Roy would swear he can feel the ticklish brush of Ed’s loosed hair trailing over his chest, Ed’s hips canted sharply between Roy’s thighs, and he almost gets up to go to the bathroom before he remembers his bandaged hands. They’re no good in a situation like this one, stitched and sterile, so he calms his breath for a moment to track Riza’s, slow and even in the next bed. Then he takes the extra pillow his rank procured him, shoves it down between his legs and rolls over on it. Riza’s medicated, but she’s always slept light like a good soldier and he can’t risk her waking, so all he can do is quietly shove down the front of his hospital-issued pants and twitch his hips into the yielding fluff with just the barest friction.  
  
Roy dreamed Ed inside him, but thinks now that he’d like to try it the other way around. His hands wouldn’t be able to support his own weight, though, so he imagines Ed will take a ride, head thrown back to expose his throat, a bead of sweat rolling down his chest; he’ll be so unbearably, virginally tight (unless he got up to some shenanigans with his Xingian prince buddy, who wasn’t half bad-looking either, but that’s beside the point) and he’ll cry Roy’s name as he comes, molten, over Roy’s chest….  
  
Roy has to bite down hard on the pillow under his head as he ruts against the other in the agonizing hospital quiet, blood singing in his ears. But he’s so close, and whether his eyes are open or closed he only sees Ed, flushed and panting, until Roy’s body quakes and he comes hard across the pillowcase.  
  
It’s not until a few minutes later, as he tries not to think too much about the many new levels of his depravity, that he realizes the mess he’s made of his precious second pillow, and that the morning nurse he’s charmed into bringing him coffee on her way in to work will surely be the one to find the stain.  
  
He spends some time pondering the problem, his heartbeat gradually quieting, though his mind continues to stray to the elder of the two Elrics whom are probably both asleep in their room the next floor down. Which, of course, is how he gets the idea.  
  
He hasn’t seen either brother yet—well, of course he hasn’t seen them, that won’t come until after Dr. Marcoh’s had a session or two with Havoc, and Edward is understandably occupied anyway—but his men bring him tidbits of news. Al is dangerously undernourished but on the mend, Ed’s arm is weak but he’s healthy, and he is, as far as anyone can tell, completely unable to perform alchemy. They seemed baffled as they relayed this outcome, as though Edward without alchemy was a prospect in defiance of the laws of nature—except for Alex Louis, who remained quiet on the matter. Roy didn’t have to see him to know they were thinking the same thing: _antipeponthos_. Justice through reciprocity; equivalent exchange.  
  
Roy remembers the last thing he saw before his eyes went dark—how could he not? The Gate and its reservoir of knowledge is burned onto his retinas now, in his head no matter how he tries to forget. He understands, finally, the theory of alchemy without a circle. A misnomer— _he_ will become the circle, a circle of flesh and blood and bone, complete when his hands connect.  
  
He’s seen Ed lift stains from his clothing with alchemy before, and after he thinks about it a moment or two, he can imagine the sort of array that might require, and has a basic idea of the elements he’ll encounter when his alchemy touches the pillowcase. There’s no time like the present, as the saying goes, so he shifts his hips off the sticky pillow, presses his fingertips together in lieu of clapping, and gives the alchemy a little _push…._

 

***

  
Ed wakes in near dark, disoriented until his eyes adjust to the bit of illumination that seeps in around the door. It’s a hospital, his nose tells him immediately, and though he isn’t in pain, something is wrong. No—that _is_ what’s wrong, he’s not in pain. The everyday ache of the automail, screws drilled into the bones of his shoulder and chest, the drag of its weight, the numbness of the arm itself is gone. In its place is lightness and tingling, and when he shifts just a little, the startling scrape of sheets against skin.  
  
It all snaps into place when he turns his head and sees the pale line of the flesh he’s been missing, flung out across the mattress in his sleep, hand dangling off the edge. Then, just beyond it, another bed, and another body—his brother, mouth hanging open and drooling in his sleep as though he’d never been armor at all.  
  
The wonder of Ed’s arm is nothing compared to Alphonse, much too thin and pale, but _human_ again. The vestiges of sleep fall away as he watches Al breathe, a pastime he suspects he won’t tire of for a long while. It’s hypnotizing, that steady rise and fall, so when the _BOOM!_ sounds from somewhere above them, a crackle and bang like a lightning strike, it startles him so badly in the quiet that he’s scrambling to his feet a moment later on pure instinct. Still, it’s the middle of the night and he’s clumsy, and when the bedsheet gets tangled in the ankle joint of his automail leg, he doesn’t notice until he’s tilting inexorably across the space between the two beds with arms pinwheeling wildly. A moment later he crashes face-first into the side of Al’s mattress, yelping in a completely undignified manner before Al wakes with a start and peers at him with bleary eyes. “Brother? What on Earth are you doing?”  
  
“Mmnph,” Ed grunts into the lumpy hospital bedding, kicking free of the sheet and slumping back onto his knees. “Didn’t you hear that? There was an explosion or something.”  
  
“Explosion?” Al repeats around a yawn. “What are you talking about?”  
  
Ed fumbles the worn cotton hospital pants on over his boxers. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear that, it shook the whole room. Came from above us, there was this huge bang, I gotta go see what’s going on.”  
  
Rubbing at his eyes to clear them, Al looks up at the ceiling. “Above us? That’s—”  
  
“I know. Mustang and Hawkeye’s room. Stay here, I’ll be back.”  
  
By the time Ed barrels up the stairs and into the hallway, a small crowd has gathered around the room. They seem more curious than anything else—nurses, and some patients from the surrounding rooms—and as he pushes his way through the crowd, he can hear Denny Brosch, obviously Mustang’s security for the night, ask in a baffled voice, “What the heck happened here? Um, sir?”  
  
Only a moment later, Ed sees for himself. Shoving into the room, the first thing he notices is the ozone smell of fresh alchemy, and the tiny feathers that drift downward like snow. Then he takes in what seem to be the ruins of a pillow in the middle of the bed. Then a confused groan draws his attention to Mustang, sprawled on his back on the floor between the beds, covered in an explosion of feathers that are thickest…on his crotch? As Roy groggily tries to sit up, Ed can see that the feathers are stuck to him somehow….

Well. Ed isn’t stupid, and it only takes him a moment to put it all together, the alchemy smell, the demolished pillow, the sticky stuff. And Roy’s bandaged hands—Ed has had some experience with lack of hands when the need arises.  
  
Luckily, Hawkeye doesn’t seem to have figured it out, or possibly just isn’t fazed at all—she’s just staring at him with a tolerantly bored expression, as though he does this all the time. But then, Ed thinks, she did say once that Roy learned alchemy from her father. Probably she’s seen him set his crotch on _fire_ , never mind blow up pillows.  
  
“You’re really an idiot, Mustang,” he says, and grins when Roy’s face blanches and then turns a surprising shade of pink.  
  
“Fullmetal. You have… _unbelievable_ timing.”

 

***

  
“Sergeant,” Riza says, in that tone that means she’s trying not to roll her eyes, “would you clear out the spectators in the hallway?” Roy can hear Brosch’s heels click together in a salute before Riza speaks again. “Edward, I’m sorry if the noise woke you up.”  
  
“It’s okay, I was awake already.” Then Ed’s voice gets farther away perhaps leaning out the door. “Hey Sergeant, could you go downstairs and tell Al everything’s okay? And that I’ll be down in a little?”  
  
“Sure thing, Ed—um—sir!”  
  
Then the door clicks shut, and when Ed’s uneven footsteps approach, Roy tries not to actually scramble away from the sound and deepen his indignity. _This is some kind of nightmare. My punishment for…I can’t believe this._ “Fullmetal—”  
  
“You’re gonna need some washing up. And new pants. And alchemy lessons, you damn moron.”  
  
From somewhere above him, Riza snorts, and then he hears her pulling the curtain around her bed. “I’ll leave him to you, Edward, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Oh, great,” Ed grumbles under his breath, and then before Roy’s really prepared for it, a hand grabs him under the arm to haul him to his feet. “You okay? Didn’t…ah…hurt anything sensitive, did you?”  
  
_The floor should be opening up and swallowing me any minute now…._ “No, I’m perfectly fine, there’s no need for—”  
  
Ed snorts at his humiliation, cutting him off. “You can’t see and your hands probably have a million stitches each, and you look like you just banged a chicken.” Another snort from Riza, muffled in her pillow. “Suck it up. Besides, this’ll be great blackmail someday.” Then Ed steers him rather forcefully into the bathroom, equipped with another perk of rank—a shower, complete with seat and guard rails, for which Roy has thus far been silently grateful, and which he now suddenly dreads. Ed’s hand leaves him, and a moment later the faucets squeak and the shower stutters to life. “You can get undressed by yourself, right? The spray should knock all those feathers right off.”  
  
_This really is a nightmare. Because unless I’m still dreaming and this is going to turn into a buddy shower…I’m just sitting on the toilet with my cock covered in feathers and Edward Elric asking if I’m still capable of undressing myself._ “I really can handle this without your help, Fullmetal—”  
  
“Stop calling me that.”  
  
Roy pauses with fingers fumbling at the ties at the side of his pajama shirt. “I thought you liked your title.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m not an alchemist anymore, am I?” Then impatient hands tug the ties loose and pull the shirt off him, and Roy spends a moment sputtering at this new indignity before it hits him. Two flesh hands.  
  
“Hey, what’re you—” Ed starts as Roy grabs for his hand, running his fingertips carefully over it. Then he snorts and tugs it out of his grasp. “It’s the other one, idiot,” he mutters, placing the other lightly in Roy’s grip.  
  
Roy suddenly wishes, very fiercely, that he could see it. But in the absence of his eyes, his injured hands make do, tracing the prominent bones of Ed’s fingers and his wrist, sliding up along the skinny arm to a bony shoulder, laced with scars and, to his surprise, odd bits of metal left in the flesh. When his fingers stutter over the steel pieces, Ed pulls in an oddly shaky breath, and he can feel the rise and fall of it, the slightest tremble. “They wanted to remove them right away, but Winry said not to let anyone but her do it. There are still some screws that go down into the bone, and stuff, and she’s the one who put them there, so…”  
  
Ed’s voice breaks through Roy’s concentration, and scatters the image he was trying to put together in his mind’s eye. He suddenly remembers who it is he’s touching, and where they are, and why he’s there—shit—and yanks his hand back, heat rising under his skin. _Get a hold of yourself, Roy!_ “I’m sorry, I…I should get in the shower.”  
  
“Yeah, you…you should. You, ah, you can handle it from here, right? There’s another pair of pants hanging on the back of the door….”  
  
Roy gathers his wits back about him, shooting what he hopes is a more usual scowl in Ed’s general direction. “I’m quite capable.”  
  
“Arrogant bastard,” Ed mutters, but it doesn’t seem to have its usual venom. “If you…get bored, or anything, come down to me and Al’s room. We’ll teach you how to not blow shit up.” Then the door opens and closes again, and he’s gone.  
  
_Maybe I really did dream all of this,_ Roy hopes as he kicks off his pants and steps into the shower. _I can only hope._

 

***

  
The jangling of the phone pulls Breda out of his much-needed sleep. He’s not at his best when first woken, and before he even understands what that damn noise is, it’s replaced by Jean’s voice. “Hello? No, he’s asleep. You’re sure? Okay…. HEYMANS! PHONE’S FOR YOU!”  
  
_Why the hell is he awake at this hour? Why the hell is he so chipper? Why the hell did he…make coffee?_ The smell is enough to lure him further into consciousness, and he scrubs a hand over his face as he stumbles blearily out of bed. “Of course it’s for me, it’s my apartment, idiot.”  
  
Jean just rolls his eyes, holding out the receiver and a steaming mug as Breda lumbers across the living room in his boxers. “It sounds important.”  
  
Taking the mug and ignoring the phone for the moment, Heymans closes his eyes as the first sips of coffee chase away the last vestiges of sleep. “Why are you up so damn early?”  
  
“Couldn’t sleep. I’m pretty excited to see this Dr. Marcoh guy,” Jean tells him, wheeling closer and shoving the receiver into his hand. “Answer the damn phone, it’s rude to keep people waiting.”  
  
“Shut up,” he replies automatically, and puts the receiver to his ear. “Breda here.”  
  
_“Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda?”_  
  
“Yeah, what?”  
  
_“This is South City Hospital calling. Are you the brother of a Mrs. Abigail Breda-Martin?”_  
  
It takes him a moment longer than it should to understand. Why would a hospital be calling about his sister? At—he glances at the clock—5:48 in the morning? Then his brain catches up, and he almost drops the phone. _Why else would a hospital be calling at 5:48 in the morning?_  
  
“Did something happen?” he gets out, gruff and low, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Jean turn toward him. “What’s going on?”  
  
_“I’m sorry sir, are you her brother?”_  
  
“Yes, yes, I’m her fucking brother, tell me what’s going on!”  
  
_“Your sister suffered a sudden cardiac arrest two days ago—“_  
  
“Two days ago? Why didn’t anyone…why didn’t anyone contact me? Is she all right?”  
  
_“There’s been so much chaos, we weren’t able to track you down until now, Lieutenant. I’m very sorry—her heart was restarted, but she was very unstable, and suffered another attack last night. The doctors were unable to revive her.”_  
  
Suddenly the floor is gone, or maybe it’s his stomach that’s gone, or maybe it’s his knees, because his legs don’t want to hold him up anymore, and he has to grip the telephone table hard to stay upright. The coffee mug that was in his hand is on the floor now, but he didn’t hear it crash, maybe the carpet broke its fall. Jean is saying something, but his words are garbled by the buzzing in Heymans’ ears.  
  
_“Sir? Are you still there?”_  
  
Is he? It doesn’t quite feel like it.  
  
“Yes. I’m here.”  
  
_“Sir, you were listed as the next of kin, so we’ll need you here as soon as possible to fill out some paperwork, and pick up your niece.”_  
  
Oh. Sarah.  
  
“She’s…is she…”  
  
_“She’s fine, she’s under observation in the pediatric ward. How soon can you get here?”_  
  
“I’ll…I’ll get on a train today.”  
  
_“We’ll have all the papers ready for you. I’m very sorry for your loss, Lieutenant.”_  
  
“Thanks,” he answers automatically, and sets the receiver back in its cradle. Train. Pack an overnight bag? Or will he come right back? He’ll need…what will he need? Baby stuff? Identification, for sure, but he always has that, protocol—  
  
“Heymans!”  
  
He blinks, startled when Jean’s hand grips his elbow and shakes. He looks down, finds blue eyes staring at him intensely. “What?”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Abby,” he says, waiting for the room to stop swaying as Jean pins him with that look. “You met her, you remember? She stayed with me a week after that dirtbag left her. She had a baby, remember? Sarah. I gotta go pick her up.”  
  
“But what happened to Abby?”  
  
“Sudden…sudden cardiac arrest." _That’s a heart attack, right?_ "A heart attack. She’s dead.”  
  
The room sways dangerously again, or maybe it’s him who’s swaying, and Jean’s hand tightens on his arm. “Sit down. Sit down right now before you fall. I’ll call a car, you can’t drive like this. I’ll call Marcoh, tell him to postpone until tomorrow.”  
  
“What? Why?” Maybe he really should sit down. His beat up old bachelor couch is right there, and he walks over to it on numb legs, sinks down into the familiar lumpy cushions. Maybe it’s time to get a new couch.  
  
“I’m coming with you.” The wheelchair squeaks as Jean rolls away to the kitchen. _Do wheelchairs need oiling?_ Then the squeaking comes back, and a sweating glass is pressed into his hand. “Here. You look like you’re about to pass out. Just drink this and I’ll…is there anyone else who has to be called? Your parents are gone, aren’t they?”  
  
“Yeah. Just me ‘n Abby. Just me now.” He can hear his own heart pounding, is that a bad sign? He’s not in the best of shape, it’s true, but it’s not like heart problems run in his family—  
  
Just him now.  
  
His stomach lurches, and he sets the glass down on the side table and gets to his feet, his body knows what to do even if his brain can’t catch up. Then he’s retching over the bowl, there’s nothing in his stomach but that doesn’t seem to matter, and that smell of toilet water fills his nose and makes him heave harder, it smells like every bad drunken night he’s ever had.  
  
When he stumbles back to the living room, mouth rinsed out but still tasting just a little foul, Jean’s on the phone.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll call when we get back. Listen sir, if you wanna have him do your eyes before— Okay. If you’re sure. Thanks, Colonel. Yeah, she’s my next call. Oh…I don’t know if I— Great, lemme just…okay.” He takes the message pad and pencil, jotting down numbers in quick succession as Breda sinks back onto the couch. “Got it. Yeah, I’ll tell him.” He hangs up with a finger, the receiver still tucked against his shoulder. “Colonel says you do what you gotta do. You okay?”  
  
Breda forces his eyes to focus. “Brigadier General. They promoted him.”  
  
“Colonel, Brigadier General, whatever.” Jean was watching him carefully, and he tried to meet that gaze, tried not to get lost in his head just yet. “I’m gonna call Mrs. Hughes.”  
  
“Mrs. Hughes?”  
  
Jean shrugs. “She’s the first person I can think of who’s had a baby. I sure as hell don't know how to change a diaper, do you?”  
  
“Sure. Used to change Abby’s when she was a squirt. Aw, fuck. _Fuck_.”  
  
There’s a moment’s pause while he tries to get a hold of himself, and Jean watches him try. “Hey,” he says, gentle. “Why don’t you go back to bed for a while? There isn’t a train for a couple of hours, anyway.”  
  
“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Okay.” He can feel eyes on him as he gets up, stumbles back to his bedroom, but he doesn’t close the door all the way before he slumps down onto his bed. Jean’s on the phone again by the time he really starts to cry, and that makes it easier, a little, to hear a voice that isn’t his own in his usually empty bachelor flat. He’s still crying, face pressed awkwardly into his pillow, when Jean hangs up—and then he turns the radio on, louder than it needs to be. What a guy. It’s just loud enough to cover the low sob he can’t bite back, and all the ones that follow after it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this story is by the spectacular bob_fish! See her illustrations [here](http://bob-fish.livejournal.com/58058.html)!

_Embodiment, Day 4  
  
Best Sensations:  
-Cashmere on Skin (a gift from Second Lieutenant Ross—the closest thing to a kitten the hospital will allow!)  
-Yawning (way better than I remember!)  
-Sponge Baths (they won’t let Ed bathe me like he told them he could, because his right arm is still weak, and they think he can’t hold me up or something—but I don’t mind, because instead I get Michelle, the morning nurse)  
-Nipples (maybe this should be a subcategory under Sponge Baths by Michelle, or maybe I should make a list for Puberty and Sexual Maturation in general)  
-Ed (ok, he’s not a sensation all to himself, but a category of sensations maybe, like Warm Hands, and Soft Hair, and Nasty Morning Breath, and all kinds of things I’ve been missing)  
  
Notable Firsts:  
-First Kiss (on the cheek, from Second Lieutenant Ross, when she brought me the sweater)  
-First Non-Intravenous Food (some amazing mushy cereal that Brother said looked “like barf,” but I liked it too much to throw any at him)  
-First Normal Bowel Movement (which the doctor said was a great sign—I just hope that means they’ll let me get up to go next time instead of using a bedpan)  
-Longest Stretch of Wakefulness to Date (six hours and eleven thirteen minutes so far)  
  
Experiences Not to Be Repeated:  
-Foley Catheterization (this should technically be under Day 1, but since my journal wasn’t retrieved from the armor until this morning, it can go here)  
-Licking Soap (it smelled so good on Ed, and he didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about smelling the bar, but he threw a fit when I tried to taste it—he blushed like maybe he’d been doing something nasty with it in the shower, but I’m trying not to think too hard about that, and anyway it tasted terrible)  
-Nightmares (I guess I can’t do anything about preventing this one. Brother always made light of his nightmares, but now that I know what they’re really like, I’m glad I was always awake to talk to him afterwards. They’re much worse now than I remember when we were kids; the psychologist who evaluated me the other day said that’s common after trauma. Though if Ed will sit by me and talk and play with my hair every time I have a nightmare, I guess I can live with that.)  
  
Other Notes/Thoughts:  
The doctors say I can be taken off some of the monitors and the catheter tomorrow, and start walking around. Ed keeps telling them I was walking when we checked ourselves in and why can’t I get up and pee for myself, but I understand—they have to make sure my organs don’t fail on me. One of the doctors, pretty young and with a kind sort of face, talked to Brother and I a lot about the effects of starvation on the human body, and while some of it probably won’t apply in my situation, I think some of it probably will. Take things one day at a time, as Mom used to say.  
  
Speaking of organs failing, we heard on the radio today that there’s been a rash of heart attacks across the country, mostly older people—Ed suspects it’s because of the strain when everyone’s souls were sucked out. We called Winry to make sure she and Granny were okay, and everything was fine there, but I feel awful that so many innocent people have been hurt and died because we couldn’t stop Father sooner. I know Ed feels guilty too, but we haven’t talked much about it.  
  
That reminds me, Ed never told me the whole story about the explosion upstairs—just that Brigadier General Mustang (he got promoted, can you believe it?) tried to use clap-alchemy and blew up a pillow. The way Brother danced around the subject makes me think it was something embarrassing—but it’s rude to speculate, so I’ll just have to ask Captain Hawkeye next time I see her.  
  
On a possibly related note, I’m still waiting anxiously for my first erection—hopefully when the catheter comes out, things will start working like they should down there. If the times I’ve accidentally overheard Brother are any indication, I’ll have some new additions for the Best Sensations list._  
  
“What are you grinning about over there?”  
  
Al slams the journal shut, startled. “What? Nothing! Just making some lists.”  
  
Ed raises an eyebrow suspiciously, an expression that reminds Al powerfully of the newly-promoted Brigadier General Mustang (though he'd never tell his brother that).  "Just some lists, huh?  They wouldn't happen to include Nurse Michelle, would they?"  "Shut up!  She's pretty!"  "Sure, if you like that sort of thing," Ed snorts.  "Personally, I think boobs that big are just unnatural."  
  
“Don’t let Havoc hear you say that,” comes a new voice from the doorway, “he’s been known to wax poetic about the wonders of a well-endowed woman.”  
  
“General!”  
  
Mustang smiles warmly in Al’s direction, though his eyes are incongruously blank; he stands with one bandaged hand on the doorframe, as though to ground himself, looking a little worse for wear but _there_ , and whole, and somehow it’s a relief to finally see him. Hooked on one arm he carries a basket covered in a bit of gingham, and Al wonders briefly how the gingham would feel between his fingers—until the smell hits him. The most amazing, wonderful, _incredible_ smell he’s smelled so far, a smell that belongs in a list of the best smells ever.  
  
Ed is asking the General a question, but Al doesn’t really hear it, only the reply: “They wouldn’t let Gracia visit. This whole wing is still under pretty tight security, so she compromised by sending a pie in with one of Maes’ old underlings.”  
  
“What kind of pie?” Al finds himself asking, swallowing down the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.  
  
“Apple.” The General feels his way around Ed’s bed and sits on the edge of it, and Ed takes the basket from him and peeks inside, then looks at Al with a beaming grin.  
  
“Just don’t tell Winry that her apple pie wasn’t the first one you got to taste, okay?”  
  


***

  
Some time later, full and sleepy and drunk with bliss, Alphonse licks the last crumbs and drips from his fingers, falling back onto his pillow with a happy groan. “I love pie. Can a person live on pie?”  
  
“Well, you wouldn’t get scurvy at least, but I don’t think it’s a great idea. You have pie all over your face,” Ed murmurs, leaning over him with a little frown and a hankie from the bedside table. Al lets him clean him up—he’s perfectly capable of doing it himself, but it seems to make Ed happy to baby him a little, and anyway, he’s so sleepy…  
  
It’s easy to doze, tuning in and out as Brother and the General talk. Some of it makes it through the fog of almost-sleep, like Ed’s bark of laughter when the General thanks him for his help last night, and their voices lowering in a somber discussion of Dr. Marcoh and his remaining Philosopher’s Stone.  
  
“You know why Al and I couldn’t use it,” Ed murmurs, solemn. “But you’ve got a shit-ton of work to do, Mustang. I’ll admit, you’ve got the balls to do it like this, but—”  
  
“—But being able to see would certainly be helpful. I’m…very glad to hear you say that, Edward.”  
  
“When’s he gonna do it? D’you think he’ll mind if I watch? ‘Cause that's gonna be some awesome alchemy.”  
  
“It was going to be the day after tomorrow, but…”  
  
 _Huh…healing alchemy via the Stone. That would be really interesting to see. Maybe I could ask Dr. Marcoh to teach me a little about what he does. Brother’s probably going to keep getting into trouble, and without alchemy he’s probably going to get hurt. It would be good to know how to fix him up, and now that Mei’s gone back to Xing…._  
  
His brother and the General are still talking, but it’s just a fuzzy murmur now; sleep is such a new and wonderful thing that Alphonse doesn’t have the will to fight it off. He feels his special sheet (actually several brushed cotton sheets from the maternity ward that the hospital uses for infants’ sensitive skin, stitched together with alchemy by their teacher before she headed home to Dublith) slide up over his limbs and tuck in around him, and barely registers a hand in his hair before the last of his waking awareness melts into sleep.  
  


***

  
“That’s…awful,” Ed manages through his shock. “We heard about it on the radio, all the heart attacks—”  
  
Mustang’s face is grim and a little sorrowful as they ascend the stairs to his and Hawkeye’s room; Ed keeps a hand on his elbow to steer him (though there’s a banister, so there’s no real reason why Mustang can’t steer himself, but he hasn’t shaken Ed off yet). “If we just could’ve stopped Father a little sooner—”  
  
“Don’t,” Mustang interrupts, sharp. “You saved the world, Ed, and we can’t go back. The only way to go is forward.”  
  
Ed stares at the firm line of his mouth, the determined set of his eyebrows. “You can’t tell me you don’t regret things. I know you do. Hero of Ishval, all that.”  
  
“Regret doesn’t fix anything.” Mustang pauses at the top of the flight, turns toward Ed. “We’d be inhuman not to feel it, but we still have to make things right.”  
  
“You can fix Ishval,” Ed murmurs. “What can I do?”  
  
Mustang smirks, just a little. “Babysit.”  
  
Ed snorts and yanks his elbow, dragging him out into the hall and down to the door of his room.  
  
The door is open, and inside Captain Hawkeye is hefting a bag over her shoulder, the strap cutting right across the new star of her rank. “There you are,” she says with a hint of exasperation.  
  
“Did you miss me, Captain?”  
  
“Not in the slightest. I’ve been discharged, I was just about to give up and leave without seeing you. I’ve arranged for you to keep this room to yourself, unless they absolutely need the empty bed, so you’ll have to get someone else to help you when you can’t find things.”  
  
“Hmm, maybe that Nurse Michelle, I hear she has a nice rack.”  
  
“I’ll be back to report in tomorrow morning, sir,” Hawkeye intones, and Ed can’t help but grin at her tiny eyeroll. Then she meets his smile with one of her own, tired but easy. “Is Alphonse asleep? I wanted to stop in, but it can wait until tomorrow.”  
  
Ed chuckles. “He’s a sleeping champ, but he’s usually up by an hour or two before lunch. He’ll be glad to see you.”  
  
Hawkeye nods, then turns a sterner look on him. “Have you called Winry to tell her you’re both all right?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. She got all sappy, and then she was moaning and groaning about my arm.”  
  
“Your arm?” Hawkeye pins him with a raised eyebrow, and Ed scowls.  
  
“It’s not automail anymore, she’s losing half my business.”  
  
Mustang snorts, and Hawkeye shoots him one of her scary sharp glances before remembering he can’t see it, and turns a softer expression back to Ed. “I’m sure she’s very glad you’re well,” she says with peculiar emphasis, but before Ed can puzzle it out she’s headed for the door. “Get some rest today, General,” she calls as she leaves, “and don’t wreck any more pillows.”  
  
Ed cackles; Mustang has the grace to blush, and hangs his head. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”  
  


***

  
The South City Hospital smells like any other, and though Breda never particularly minded it before, he’s learning to hate that mix of disinfectant and blood and nervous sweat. By the time he’s done signing papers, making arrangements to transport the body—  
  
— _not a body, his sister, his baby sister_ —  
  
—to the funeral home in Lockley, where they grew up, the smell’s making him sick to his stomach. Abby doesn’t have a plot, why would she, but she had some life insurance, he remembers, and he’s got the number of the cemetery where their parents are buried—  
  
Jean clears his throat, bringing him back to the present, to the nurse watching him with practiced sympathy. “That’s everything,” she says, “except for your niece. I’ll take you up to the pediatric ward.”  
  
“Sure,” he manages, suddenly remembers the baby carrier Gracia brought when she met them at the train station this morning, which is sitting at his feet. He picks it up—it’s surprisingly light without a baby in it—and follows the nurse to the elevator, Jean rolling along beside him with one wheel still squeaking just a little.  
  
“She’s doing very well,” the nurse says as the elevator doors close. “Healthy, and we switched her over to formula, but she’ll need regular checkups—just give the hospital a call once you’ve set up a doctor for her when you get her home, we’ll have her records sent.”  
  
He nods. The doors open again, and the smell is a little different here, growing more familiar the further they proceed down the hall. When the nursery comes into view, Sarah is easy to spot—in a room full of newborns, one three-month-old sticks out like a sore thumb.  
  
Breda remembers reading somewhere that most babies strongly resemble their fathers for the first months of life, some evolutionary tactic to help males recognize offspring as their own. It seems to be true—he can’t see much of Abby in Sarah’s sleeping face, and he’s absurdly grateful for it.  
  
She was born while he was out west—no time to get away, or so he thought, so much focus on secret correspondence and keeping his head down under a C.O. who probably reported directly to the Fuhrer. He couldn’t risk giving away any weakness, leading the bad guys to his sister and his niece the way he and Hawkeye and Falman and Fuery had been used against the Colonel.  
  
When the nurse puts Sarah in his arms, it’s the first time he’s ever seen her. Her ears stick out from her head a little, and her mouth works as she sleeps; fine wisps of brown hair curl over her skull, not red like his and Abby’s, and when she yawns and stirs, blinking up at him, her eyes are greenish, hazel maybe, and they fix on his face with confused interest.  
  
“Well,” he says, because her gaze seems to require a response. “I’m your Uncle Heymans.”  
  
Jean elbows him in the thigh, because he can’t reach to elbow him in the gut, and coughs meaningfully. “And?”  
  
“Uh, yeah, and this is Jean.”  
  
“Uncle Jean,” comes the correction as Havoc strains his neck up and raises his eyebrows as though that will make him tall enough to get a good look at her. Breda leans down, feels almost like laughing; he doesn’t, but the feeling is good anyway.  
  
“Sure. Uncle Jean.”  
  
“Hi there, beautiful,” Jean says in that voice people reserve for babies, and wiggles his fingers in her face. Sarah shows her appreciation by spitting up all over her onesie and Jean’s hand.  
  
Breda really does laugh at that.  
  


***

  
“So Edward,” Roy says later as they sit on opposite beds.  
  
There’s only so much clap-alchemy Ed can teach him without Al’s help, but if the mischievous look on the bastard’s face is any indication, Ed’s not going to like this segue.  
  
“I hear you’ve got a little thing for Miss Rockbell.”  
  
Ed groans. “Shut up, I don’t know, the Captain came up with that idea out of who knows where, she’s crazy.”  
  
“On the contrary, she’s usually quite good at noticing these things.”  
  
“Well it’s not…I mean…we just…”  
  
Ed trails off, waving a hand inarticulately, which Mustang can’t see anyway, and looks over at him even though he knows he’ll be smirking, the bastard—but he’s not. He’s looking at Ed, or listening at Ed, with an intense sort of attention. It’s unnerving. “We grew up together, of course I—love her,” he finds himself admitting. “I just…it’s not…like that. I mean, we climbed trees together and shit, and she’s seen me half-naked and missing limbs and delirious, hell, she practically strips me every time I need a tune-up. It’s not…I can’t see her that way. Maybe I will, but not now, not yet.”  
  
Mustang is quiet for a moment, and Ed’s suddenly afraid he’s said too much, given the bastard too much ammo—until the General leans forward a little, elbows on knees, and smiles.  
  
“I’ve known Riza since I was your age,” he says. “She’s seen me at my worst. She’s been with me all this time. She’s a beautiful woman, but…she means too much.”  
  
Silence falls again, less fragile this time, and even though Mustang’s been nice so far, Ed can’t help but use what he’s got.  
  
“Soooo,” he drawls, letting the vowel stretch. “It wasn’t her you were thinking about with that pillow.”  
  
He expects bluster, complaining, returned snark. The give and take that their relationship has been based on this entire time. He doesn’t expect Mustang to go suddenly paler, and then beet red, mouth stammering to find a reply.  
  
“I, well, Full—Edward, I think that’s, that question isn’t really, I’m still your commanding officer…” he stammers, trailing off.  
  
The reaction is so unlike what Ed was waiting for that he can’t quite figure out how to respond, so he picks the part he’s sure of. “You won’t be my commanding officer much longer though, right? I’m no use to the military without alchemy, there’s probably just some paperwork to have me honorably discharged or something.”  
  
The blush fades a little from Mustang’s cheeks, and there’s a flicker of sudden panic there instead before it’s smoothed over, businesslike. “If that’s what you want,” he says quietly, “I can put someone on it. It’ll take a little while to get things organized, though, there are a few more important things than one alchemist’s retirement to take care of at the moment.”  
  
“I’m sure they won’t let Al out of the hospital for a while,” Ed replies, “so there’s really no rush.” He doesn’t say that retirement _is_ what he wants, what he’s been looking forward to since he took the exam in the first place. He’s getting the feeling, watching the other man’s now purposefully casual expression, that it’s not something Mustang wants to hear.  
  
 _Well, of course he doesn’t. I’ve done my share of good for his career, that’s for sure, I bet he hoped he could squeeze some more leverage out of me._ Still, the Colonel— _Brigadier General_ —has been good to Ed and his brother, and after everything they’ve been through in the last year, it’s hard to think too ill of him.  
  
In fact, it’s probably not equivalent at all, how much Mustang has let him get away with, how much suffering Ed himself has caused. He thinks for a moment of Hughes, of Mustang’s face telling him the man had moved to the country, and he’s lost for a second in hindsight, little cracks in the mask adding up to an impression of a man with more depth of feeling than Ed had ever credited him with back when he was twelve and knew nothing about hiding your feelings.  
  
“Let me know if you…if you need anything,” he offers after a moment. “I guess technically you can still order me to do stuff, but with Al laid up I got nothing to do but sit around and read all day. You know, with Hawkeye gone, and you alone in here.”  
  
“Well, I can’t precisely order you to help me into the shower, I think that goes beyond a C.O.’s scope,” Mustang answers with a little grin, still some embarrassment in it, but an edge of something else, something warm.  
  
“Lucky for you,” Ed finds himself replying, “I’m just nice enough to do it anyway.”  
  
There’s something intriguing about the thought of seeing Mustang safely to the shower when he’s _not_ covered in feathers, and an image, patched together from the bits of bare skin he’s seen, flits through his brain before he can stop it.  
  
Suddenly it’s a little too warm in this room.  
  
In fact, this whole conversation has somehow skipped the track their interactions usually take; Ed’s following his gut now, feeling his way in unknown territory. Unknown, at least, until Mustang leans back again rather suddenly and crosses his legs.  
  
 _Wait a minute…  
  
No. No fucking way._  
  
“Yes, lucky indeed,” Mustang replies a little faintly, squirming in a way that makes it clear he’s trying to be unobtrusive about it.  
  
 _The pillow…ME?_  
  
Ed doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Mustang pulls back a little, the calm exterior whisked away entirely.  
  
“W-what?” He moves as if to stand, changes his mind halfway, then changes it again and straightens awkwardly, turning away with his hands out in front of him for guidance. “You know, Edward, what time is it? I think it’s maybe around dinnertime, I know you don’t much like hospital food but it’s better than nothing, right? You’d better be down there when they bring it or it’ll get cold—”  
  
Ed’s gut has taken him this far—he might as well keep listening to it. He rises and catches Mustang’s elbow, spinning him gently back around, and tries not to think too hard about how he has to go up on his toes to reach. He just carefully, uncertainly puts his mouth to Mustang's.  
  


***

  
One thing Roy’s noticed about blindness is that every time someone touches him, it’s a surprise. When he can’t see it coming, contact is suddenly startling, gains more power than it had before.  
  
Ed’s hand on his elbow is like a static shock, grounding him in space but sending a jolt down to his attentive groin; then a second later comes an unfamiliar scent, a warm breath and tentative lips.  
  
For a moment he’s frozen, torn between brain ( _I’m caught I’m caught oh god he’s sixteen_ ) and body, the eager twitch of his cock in his pants, the way Ed’s half-open mouth brushes his, not unskilled, but unsure of its welcome. And oh, is it ever welcome. It doesn’t take long for his body to win the argument on that one, and when Ed’s hand slides up from Roy’s elbow to his shoulder and grips there, Roy lets his fingers feel their way down along his side.  
  
Ed’s mouth is impossibly hot, and surprisingly gentle until Roy eagerly offers his tongue; a moment later Ed’s plastered against him from lips to toes—  
  
And Roy’s erection, hard and aching and not exactly restrained in the loose hospital pants, is poking Ed quite insistently in the stomach. Roy knows the moment the blonde notices, because his body stiffens just a little, the muscles of his abdomen contracting as though to pull away—  
  
The door clicks open, and Ed seems to disappear from his arms instantaneously.  
  
“Dinnertime, General!” the nurse chirps, and Roy sits down abruptly to hide what he suddenly realizes is a wet spot on his pants, pats around in desperation for the tray table and drags it over on squeaking wheels to block her view of his lap.  
  
“You were right Mustang, time for dinner, gotta go, I’m hungry!” Ed squeaks, and Roy can hear his hurried footsteps, one still heavier than the other, darting out of the room.  
  
“Those Elric boys, the girls down on the second floor tell me they can really pack food away, even the skinny one, poor lamb!” the nurse comments, setting the tray down on the table with a clatter. “All right General, tonight we’ve got turkey and gravy, stuffing and corn on the plate right here in the middle, and iced tea in the far left corner of the tray, it’s in a bottle with a lid so you can’t spill it everywhere. And tapioca pudding for dessert, over here on the right—”  
  
“Thank you, I can manage,” he interrupts, losing patience, though his hard on hasn’t lost any steam at all.  
  
Luckily she takes the hint and leaves him to his own devices; he hears the door click behind her and slumps in relief.  
  
 _Well. That was…I don’t know really know_ what _that was._  
  
His aching groin throbs and he sighs, pushes the tray back, and retreats to the bathroom. He’s still not sure he can clean up a mess without further explosions—which means it’s time to feel his way to the bathroom for a nice, _cold_ shower.  
  


***

  
_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.  
  
What the fuck?  
  
Fuck.  
  
Mustang._ Mustang. _This is bad. Oh, fuck I’m hard, this is so bad, Al’s probably awake again, he’s gonna notice if I can’t even walk straight on my way to the bathroom and it’s not like the door is very thick or anything and it doesn’t lock, holy fuck Mustang’s an amazing kisser, maybe that’s how he gets so many dates, this is very very bad.  
  
But I was right—last night, he was thinking about me._  
  
An image, unbidden, and Ed has to stop, leaning up against the wall in the stairwell and covering his burning face with his hands.  
  
 _That’s disgusting. It should be disgusting._  
  
His groin throbbed its disagreement.  
  
 _Okay, not disgusting at all, maybe I can just run right into the bathroom while Al is paying attention to his food, he’ll be blissed out from eating anyway, and I can be quiet…._  
  
When he gets back to their room, there’s a covered tray of food beside his bed, and another next to Al’s; his brother is digging into whatever mush the doctors say he can eat this time with a glazed over look on his face.  
  
 _Just act casual, straight to the bathroom, nothing to see here…._  
  
“Just in time, Brother! Have you been up in the General’s room all this time? What were you talking about for so long?”  
  
“Oh, nothing much, just alchemy, you know, gotta take a crap Al, be out in a bit!”  
  
“Ugh, I’m _eating_ , Ed!” comes Al’s reprimand around the bathroom door as Ed clicks it shut behind him.  
  
It only takes a minute or two, recalling Mustang’s tongue sliding into his mouth, the shocking heat of his erection, just the tiniest thought of that erection shoved furtively into a pillow in the middle of the night as a substitute for Ed’s body—  
  
He comes like a freight train, gripping the porcelain of the toilet with a hand he’s very glad isn’t automail now, head lolling back against the wall behind the bowl. It takes a moment before he can breathe again, before the stars subside from his vision.  
  
“Brother, you okay in there?”  
  
 _Fuck._

***

  
For a little while, nothing really penetrates the haze of _food_ , the smell of it, the texture, the taste. The way he can feel each swallow slither down his throat is quite distracting. Still, Al prides himself on being observant, especially when it comes to his brother—and his brother is acting _very_ strangely. Al is new to this whole teenaged body thing, but he’s quite smart, and it’s not hard to form a hypothesis. Now he has only to test it, so he chooses his words carefully.  
  
“So, Brother,” he begins, wiping up the last dregs of his dinner with a finger while Ed inhales his food. “How’d you make out with the General?”  
  
His brother chokes on his mouthful of stuffing, coughing and sending a spray of it over his tray.  
  
 _Bingo. Finally!_. Al focuses for a moment on his expression, trying to keep it casusal—he’s not sure he can count on his face not giving anything away, but Ed’s too busy looking elsewhere to notice.  
  
“W-what’re you talking about?”  
  
“Well, you said he wanted to learn more about clap alchemy, right? And you were up there all afternoon while I was asleep, did you teach him any new tricks?”  
  
A flush creeps up Ed’s neck and he stares down into his food. “Don’t think there are many tricks I could teach him,” he mutters, then looks up and waves his hands at Al in frantic backtracking. “I mean, now that I don’t have alchemy anymore, there’s not much I can teach him, it’s all theory, and he’s, well…”  
  
Al nods sagely. “A hands-on kind of guy.”  
  
“Right, a hands-on kind of—wait a minute—”  
  
“But then, he’s probably not very interested in hands-on lessons with _me_ ,” Al muses, head tilted thoughtfully to one side the way he’s seen his brother do when he’s theorizing, and Ed stutters out such apoplectic nonsense that Al can’t keep down the twisting corners of his smile. A giggle bubbles out of him, and Ed falls silent, staring.  
  
“You…you! You’re fucking around with me, you _brat!_ ” he shrieks, pointing an accusing finger, and Al gives up and collapses back into his pillows in a fit of laughter.  
  
“You should see—haha!—see your face, Brother! I guess I’m not—heeheehee—the only one fucking around with you!”  
  
“ _Alphonse!!_ ”

***

  
When the hysteria subsides, Al is exhausted, and Ed is glaring daggers at him from the other bed, his face and neck flushed splotchy red.  
  
“Are you going back up there tonight?” he asks around a yawn, fighting the lure of sleep. Ed sighs, stretching out on the mattress with his arms behind his head.  
  
“I don’t know. I don’t think I should.”  
  
Al rolls onto his side, studying his brother even as he nestles deeper into his pillows. Ed’s face is pensive, but the line of his body is so relaxed, loose in a way Al hasn’t seen in some time. Of course, there are lots of reasons for that—the Promised Day is over, the world is safe, they’re both as much flesh as they’re going to get. The journey is over, and the relief of that is written in Ed’s posture whether he knows it in his mind or not.  
  
“ _I_ think you should. I mean, if you want to. Or sleep on it, and go up and see him tomorrow.”  
  
Ed looks over at him, with a hopeful light in his eyes that Al’s sure his brother doesn’t know he’s showing. “Yeah?” he says, and Alphonse grins at him.  
  
“Yeah. I’m asleep half the time anyway, you need something to keep you entertained.”  
  
“ _Al!_ ” Ed groans, embarrassed. “Maybe…maybe tomorrow.”  
  
They let silence settle between them for a little while after that, until Al’s just this side of sleep, and Ed gets up to turn off the light.  
  
“Brother?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Is he a good kisser?”  
  
Ed’s always more likely to answer questions like this in the dark, and when he speaks, Al can hear the smile in his voice.  
  
“Hell yeah.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this story is by the spectacular bob_fish! See her illustrations [here](http://bob-fish.livejournal.com/58058.html)!

It’s strange to be standing outside his sister’s apartment, with his niece gearing up for a good cry in the carrier on his elbow and Jean making ridiculous baby noises at her, and trying all the while to find Abby’s keys in one of the million little compartments of her purse.  
  
“Why do women carry so much shi—cra—uh, stuff?” he mutters, finally hitting on a keyring and picking out the one that seems mostly likely to let them in to Abby’s side of the little duplex. It’s been a long, taxing day, and he was so relieved when he saw Abby’s apartment had no stairs to navigate with Jean’s chair, and he just wants to be inside and sit down and not _think_ for a little while—  
  
He gets lucky—it’s the right key. The door squeaks a little when he pushes it open, and then—  
  
And then.  
  
Pictures on the wall, right there in the entryway—his parents’ wedding photo. A candid shot of he and Jean at their Academy graduation, grinning like loons in their stiff dress uniforms. Sarah, a dozen Sarahs, pink and giggling. Heymans and Abby when they were kids, in front of a huge dinosaur skeleton at the South City Natural History Museum.  
  
He walks through to the living room as though through a gauntlet, and straight into the kitchen.  
  
The apartment smells faintly of old diapers, _trash and laundry haven’t been dealt with in three days_ , and like womanly things, perfume and scented candles and baby powder, and there are still unpacked boxes piled in corners from when she moved in just before the baby was born. It has some of her character, though, the bright patterned curtains and the rag rug in front of the couch, she liked wild colors—  
  
Sarah, fed up with the delays, shrieks for her dinner and brings him sharply back to the world again.  
  
Later, when his niece is fed and dry and asleep and _quiet_ , he collapses onto the couch.  
  
“Good thing you don’t live in the military dorms anymore,” Jean comments from his spot beside the couch arm.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“She’s got a good set of lungs on ‘er.”  
  
“Huh, yeah.” He pictures his bachelor flat back in Central, tries to imagine a baby there. It’s like one of those puzzles for kids—which one of these doesn’t belong? “I guess I’ll have to have all Sarah’s stuff shipped, can’t carry the crib and all that back on the train.”  
  
“Yeah. We don’t have to sort that out tonight, though.”  
  
“No.”  
  
There’s a radio on the side table; Heymans clicks it on, just to have some noise, just to know what’s going on in the world outside his head—  
  
_“—hrer Grumman issued a statement this morning that relief and rebuilding efforts in Central City are well underway, under the coordination of Major Alex Louis Armstrong. Any alchemists wishing to assist in construction efforts should report to Central Headquarters—”_  
  
“Seems like Grumman’s got a real solid grip on everything.”  
  
“He’s been waiting for his shot even longer than Mustang has.”  
  
Jean hums a little in agreement. “We’ll be busy enough with this Ishval stuff though. I’m glad he can…can put his demons to rest a little, you know? Him and Hawkeye both.”  
  
“I’m fuckin’ glad we weren’t there, that’s for sure.”  
  
Then there’s that puzzle again, how will he fit a baby into trips into the desert, late nights of paperwork and negotiations and anything else Mustang might need him to do?  
  
“I’ll have to hire a nanny, I guess. Seems crappy to leave her with a stranger, but…I can’t bring her to the office.”  
  
“I don’t think anybody would say no. But you’d probably never get any work done.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Silences between them have never been uncomfortable, but now as the radio mumbles on in the background, Heymans feels like he should be talking more. Like he should be telling stories about his sister, remembering her, isn’t that what people do when someone—  
  
His throat thickens so fast he doubts he could get a word out about her, anyway. Sarah’s fussing in the other room saves him, and he gets up on autopilot, feeling Jean’s eyes follow him.  


 

***

  
The Elrics’ room is on the second floor, and easy enough to find. The door is standing open when she arrives. The first bed is empty—the bathroom door is open, a little steam floating out carrying the scent of hospital soap, _Ed must be up and wandering around_ —but it’s the second bed’s occupant Riza has most wanted to see. Curled up beneath a patchwork of pink and blue cotton with the late morning sun spilling over it is a body no bigger than Edward’s. His face is mostly hidden by a shaggy fall of hair, the same brilliant shade as his brother’s but duller and tangled from sleep. Still, she can see the tip of a nose, a partly-open mouth, a gently pointed chin.  
  
She doesn’t announce her presence, but the boy in the bed seems to sense it anyway; he shifts, yawning, and a skinny hand emerges from beneath the covers to push his bangs back. Then golden eyes open, rounder than Ed’s, softer. They flick to the opposite bed, then to the bathroom, and go unfocused for a moment as the boy’s mouth curves into a little grin. Then they finally fix on Riza in the doorway, and light in surprise and pleasure.  
  
“Good morning, Alphonse,” she murmurs, and the boy smiles wide enough to split his face.  
  
“Good morning, Captain Hawkeye!” he chirps, his voice strange to hear without that tinny echo, and sits up to greet her.  
  
Riza knew, theoretically, what to expect. _“It looks worse than it is,”_ Ross told her, and that was days ago. Still, when she sees the way the hospital-issue shirt hangs off of him with arms like twigs poking out, the frightening jut of his collarbones, she’s momentarily caught off-guard.  
  
Then Alphonse’s smile softens. “I’m glad to see you’re okay,” he offers to her speechlessness, _he must be used to this reaction by now_ , and she steps forward into the room.  
  
“You too,” she replies with a little grin, and he laughs.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
The moment of shock is over; the warmth of his presence is exactly as it was before.  
  
Riza sits down on the edge of his bed and leans over, carefully, to hug him; he’s still for a moment, perhaps surprised, but when it passes he fairly wriggles in delight and wraps those skinny arms around her back. “So this is what Edward saw all along,” she murmurs in his ear before she pulls away, and he chuckles, a flush rising in his cheeks.  
  
“Something like. I know it’s quite a difference from what you’re used to.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Another thing Riza has always liked about Alphonse, something that hasn’t changed—he’s good at comfortable silences. They sit together for a few minutes, each in their own heads; Riza thinks of the fragile feel of him in her arms just a moment ago, small enough to cradle with just the width of her own shoulders, without the prickliness that makes his brother seem unapproachable. Then she remembers steel hooking around her waist, steel against her back; flames and searing heat everywhere, and screaming, and _Roy, what’s happening to Roy_ , her body sheltered like a child surrounded by the armor’s fire-heated bulk. She felt so small, in that moment; her bullets useless, her will weakened by fear and momentary grief. She felt young, and yet the body that stood between hers and the homunculus, between hers and the flames, was this softly smiling boy in the bed.  
  
“I never properly thanked you, did I?” she murmurs, not quite meaning to speak aloud, and Alphonse tilts his head to the side just like Hayate does when he’s curious.  
  
“For what?”  
  
Riza chuckles. “All sorts of things, I suppose. But I was thinking of Lust.”  
  
She can see the moment when Al strikes on the memory, and he ducks his head in embarrassment. “I’m glad I could protect you. I guess…that’s something I’m going to miss,” he muses, clenching a fist and studying it. “Being huge and invulnerable came in handy pretty often.”  
  
“Well,” Riza replies, “hopefully you boys won’t be getting into quite so much trouble anymore, either.”  
  
Alphonse laughs, bright as the sun on a cloudless summer day. “You have _met_ my brother, right? Edward ‘Trouble’ Elric?”  


 

***

  
Yesterday’s trip to and from the Elrics’ room had been guided—first by the private who’d brought Gracia’s pie, and then by Ed—and Roy is finding that getting back down to their room unaided is more of a challenge. He really should just ask a nurse for help, but his pride (much abused over the last two days) gets in the way, which is how he finds himself feeling his way down the stairs and along the hall with slow care.  
  
Actually, slow is just as well; he knows he’s got to talk to Ed, figure out what yesterday was, apologize for possibly scarring him for life with his totally inappropriate (or so he tried to convince himself) hard-on and pillow fantasies…but it’s not exactly a conversation he’s looking forward to, or knows how to begin.  
  
He’s quite lost in these troublesome thoughts when hands grab him, yank him abruptly to the side and shove him a little roughly up against what feels like a set of shelves. A door closes and there’s the click of a lock, and Roy’s hand is extended and snapping in reflex before he remembers he doesn’t have his gloves on, and his hand hurts like hell when he does that, and he can just clap for defensive alchemy these days anyway, so he brings his other hand up—  
  
“Knock it off you moron, it’s me!” a voice hisses. A very familiar voice.  
  
“Ed?”  
  
“Who the fuck else would it be?”  
  
Roy scowls in what he thinks is the right direction, reaching out to try to get a grip on him. “Oh, I don’t know, some kind of assassin?? Where the hell are we? What are you _doing?_ I almost had a heart attack, I didn’t even hear you coming—”  
  
“Shut up, it’s not my fault you weren’t paying any fucking attention, we’re in the janitor’s closet, we need to talk.”  
  
“The janitor’s closet.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
His searching hands find shelves of rags and bottles, probably cleaner, and when he shifts a little his foot hits what’s likely a mop bucket. “Ed. Why are we having a talk in the janitor’s closet?”  
  
Edward at least has the grace to sound sheepish. “It seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment. And anyway, the door locks, unlike your room or mine. And you know, mine has Al in it.”  
  
“…all right, I suppose you have a point. What sort of talk are you hoping to have, locked in the janitor’s closet?”  
  
“Will you stop being such a—you know what kind of talk we’re having, that’s why you were wandering down the hall, isn’t it? And anyway, you’re the ladies’ man, you should be the one takin’ charge of this stuff, I don’t know why I have to—”  
  
“All right, all right, quiet down, someone outside’s going to hear you and wonder what two patients are doing in here together.”  
  
Ed’s tirade stops short at that and he huffs, falling silent.  
  
Roy takes a deep breath. _I should have known that nothing with Edward Elric can ever be simple and straightforward._ “You’re right. I was coming down to your room to apologize for what happened yesterday. It was entirely inappropriate of me, and you’re much too young—”  
  
“Too _young?_ ” Ed interrupts with indignant tones. “Sixteen was legal in Amestris last time I checked, and anyway, it was me who kissed _you_ , you pompous asshole, and you’re _apologizing?_ ”  
  
Roy knows he can’t really expect his other senses to have improved much in the short time he’s been blind, but he imagines now that he can hear a tiny note of hurt in Ed’s voice underneath the bluster. _But…_ “Well, I,” he fumbles, momentarily baffled, “I assumed that I’d…scared you off.”  
  
Ed blows out a frustrated breath, and the closest is such close quarters that Roy can actually feel it brush his skin. “The _nurse_ scared me off, idiot, why would I be scared of you?”  
  
This isn’t quite how he imagined their conversation would go—for a moment he’s insulted, until the reality of the situation starts to sink in. “Then…we were going to discuss…”  
  
“Doing…doing that again,” Ed replies, and now he sounds slightly uncertain. It’s utterly charming.  
  
A smile creeps over his face before he can stop it. “I would quite like to do that again, Edward,” he murmurs, squelching the little part of his brain screaming _SUBORDINATE MALE SUBORDINATE TEENAGE MALE SUBORDINATE!_  
  
“Well…good then. I would too.”  
  
Roy shifts forward, reaches out, and Ed catches his hands carefully. That touch is all he needs to get his bearings; they move together, Roy’s hands following the line of Ed’s arms and up his neck to cradle his head, tilt it up. Ed makes a soft little sound when their mouths meet, wraps his arms around Roy’s waist, sinks against him without a moment’s hesitation.  
  
For the first few moments of contact, Roy is lost in that kiss, slow and intense as they feel each other out, the careful slide of tongues and the steady solid heat of Ed’s body so close to his. Then Ed’s hands tuck up under Roy’s hospital-issue top, pressing into his lower back, and he snaps back into himself with sudden clarity.  
  
All at once there’s nothing he wants more than to touch every inch of Ed’s body, to learn with his fingers what he can’t yet see with his eyes, and Ed sucks in a sharp breath when Roy pushes his shirt up to trace the muscles along his sides. Thumbs over Ed’s nipples earn Roy a quiet little moan that shoots straight to his groin, and Ed leans further into his hands and nibbles his bottom lip with the barest edge of teeth.  
  
“You’ve been kissed before,” Roy muses breathlessly, and Ed’s fingers become ten distinct points of pressure against the muscles of his back.  
  
“Yeah,” he answers, stretching up and locking their mouths together again with renewed enthusiasm. Roy draws him closer, nudges Ed’s hips with his own and finds, as he’d hoped, a bulge that matches the one growing between his own legs. Ed nudges back with a quiet grunt into Roy’s mouth, and oh god it’s a stroke to ego and libido both to know he wants this as much as he seems to, and Roy can’t resist running his fingers back down the trim line of Ed’s body.  
  
“You’ve been touched before?” he asks quietly, breaking the seal of their lips to mouth his way along Ed’s smooth jawline, one hand fitting between them to trace the outline of Ed’s cock through his pants.  
  
“ _Yeah_ ,” he groans into Roy’s hair, pressing into the touch, one of his hands leaving Roy’s back to grip his wrist. “Ah, careful, your stitches—”  
  
“I wish I could have been the first,” Roy breathes into the curve of Ed’s neck, finding as he says it that he means it quite sincerely, and Ed snorts even as he rocks his hips very gently into Roy’s touch.  
  
“You perv.”  
  
As insanely arousing as Ed’s reactions are thus far, he was right, the friction against his bandaged hand is uncomfortable—so Roy decides he’d better keep going until he finds something he can be first at, and sinks gingerly to his knees.  
  
“What are you—Mustang, wait a sec—”  
  
“Call me Roy,” he interrupts, thankful that Ed’s hospital pants have no fly to fuss with, and shows his gratitude with openmouthed kisses along Ed’s waist before he tugs them and the boxers beneath out of the way.

“No wait, Musta—ah, _fuck_ —”  
  
Two hands, both flesh, tangle in his hair as he feels his way with his lips, biting back a relieved laugh when pubic hair tickles his nose, tracing a line up the underside of Ed’s cock with his tongue and catching a drip like eating a popsicle.  
  
“Call me Roy,” he insists again, licking the head and that sweet spot just beneath it, and Ed’s hands tighten to the edge of pain. “You’ve been kissed, you’ve been touched, but you’ve never been sucked…”  
  
Ed’s thighs tremble under Roy’s hands. “No, no,” he moans softly, choked. Roy pushes him back against the door, draws his lips over his teeth, and proceeds to take the measure of Ed’s cock by how far it slides along his tongue and down his throat.  
  
“Roy!” comes the strangled cry above him, “Roy, _Roy!_ ” as he swirls his tongue with practiced ease, pulling back as Ed thrusts forward, and then (because after all, he is just sixteen) swallows and swallows.  


 

***

  
There’s no funeral, just a burial; there’s nobody, Breda realizes as he organizes the arrangements for later that afternoon, who might like to come. Sarah’s father was a bastard, controlling, maybe violent, though Abby’d never said as much out loud. Coming out the other side of that, she had no social life to speak of. She was still looking for a job when she died, collapsed on the sidewalk along with the rest of the planet, brought to the hospital when some stranger noticed that she didn’t get back up again with everybody else.  
  
They’re driving to the cemetery and it hits him, how lonely she must have been, how all the people he takes for granted in his daily life are friends she didn’t have, how it was just her and that apartment with the rag rug and the baby to take care of and not even her brother there to help her, and that’s going to be _his_ life now, babies need feeding and changing and watching and _raising_ , and Jean’s been great on this awful trip but he’s going to have enough problems of his own to worry about pretty soon, and Breda wants to be there for that, to support him, he wants to do whatever Mustang needs, he wants to get their team into the Fuhrer’s office someday, how is he going to do that now, how can he do all that and be responsible for molding a helpless human life on top of it?  
  
That’s when he realizes he hasn’t been watching the road, not really, and there’s a _baby_ , his _niece_ , pretty much his _kid_ now strapped into the back seat and his best friend strapped into the passenger side, and he’s _not watching the road_ , and he has to pull over and pry his fingers from the steering wheel and throw himself out of the car, because he can’t _breathe_ in there.  
  
Fresh air is better; fresh air and a breeze will help him keep it together, and the first two times he thinks maybe he can get back in and start driving again, he can taste bile at the back of his throat, so he just stays outside a little while longer.  
  
Eventually Jean leans across the driver’s seat and shoves Breda’s door open. Then he flops back onto the passenger side, just looking into the middle distance. He’s quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn’t mind if Breda’s quiet too, but it’s better now that they could talk to each other if he wanted. Heymans tries to get in the car again, finds he can do it without vomiting, and takes that as a good sign.  


 

***

  
_There’s something very satisfyingly_ dirty about this situation, Roy muses, wiping Ed’s come from the corner of his mouth and sucking it off his finger. Ed makes a soft, strangled sound, and Roy tries to picture him, probably red as a beet, pupils blown, mouth kiss-swollen. Ed’s thigh trembles under his hand, then bends as he slides down the door, and his breath is loud in the tiny room. Closet. This is a new experience even for a man of Roy’s reputation—a blowjob in a hospital closet with a male subordinate half his age, essentially blindfolded, and he hasn’t come yet himself, so none of those things matter as much as they might at some other, more objective moment.  
  
He’s jolted out of his thoughts when the tips of Ed’s fingers brush his face, just barely at first, stroking down his cheek and along his jaw. The touch is light, careful and careless at once, as though Ed really wants to be touching him but hasn’t quite gotten motor function back yet, and it makes Roy’s chest a little tight. He turns his face into the touch, kissing the fumbling fingers and the very center of his palm; Ed sighs, his other hand finding Roy’s arm and rubbing it in a slow, unconscious rhythm.  
  
“Edward,” Roy murmurs, the name traveling warm through his chest and up his throat and curling in Ed’s palm.  
  
The boy gives a pleasure-baffled hum in response, and suddenly Roy just has to touch him, to feel his way with kisses over Ed’s drooping eyelids, to taste the lazy smile of his mouth. He’s hard, and it aches, but his chest aches too, and isn’t this tender stuff supposed to be for _after_ he’s come? And since when has Roy Mustang been tender with his lovers?  
  
He can almost hear Maes in his head, an echo of his laughter, until it’s blotted out by Ed sighing, a soft huff of hot breath against Roy’s jaw. Roy decides that now isn’t the time to think about anything, really, except getting the boy on his feet again, and into a bed as soon as possible.  


 

***

  
It’s a beautiful spring day. Of course it can’t rain every time somebody gets buried, or there’d never be any sun at all, but it feels strange to hear birds chirping, to be surrounded by lush grass and blooming trees, the headstones of the cemetery popping up from the ground like rows of sprouts in a vegetable garden.  
  
There are other people, too, dotting the landscape, visiting loved ones. To see Abby, though, it’s just Heymans and Jean and Sarah, and the gravediggers who lower the casket into the ground and then wait, sprawled in the back of their pickup, a respectful distance away.  
  
It isn’t exactly as painful as he thought it would be—or, maybe just a different kind of pain. All he sees is a wood box in a hole in the ground, no stone yet. Heymans has never been very spiritual, but now he finds himself certain that his sister isn’t down there. When Jean tosses a flower onto the casket, the gesture is kind, but it’s just that—a gesture. Abby is somewhere else, gone from his sight, and this exercise suddenly feels…tedious. Frustrating. He tosses his own flower though, because that’s what you do when you bury someone, and jiggles Sarah lightly in one arm when she squirms and makes what he already has learned is a cranky noise.  
  
“Okay. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got plenty to do back in Central, we’ve been gone long enough.”  
  
Jean gives a startled huff of laughter. “Sure, I’m ready when you are.”  
  
“Take the kid then, I’ll push you. You were slow as hell getting out here.”  
  
“It’s the grass, it’s not exactly easy to navigate on wheels you know!”  
  
“Excuses, excuses.”  
  
He leaves the open grave behind; the gravediggers rise from the flatbed, shovels in hand. That’s all right. Everybody has a job to do.  
  
There was a poem someone read at his mother’s funeral, years ago—how did it go, again? _Do not stand at my grave and weep, something something…_  
  
He’ll have to remember to phone the cemetery and order a gravestone, and now he thinks he knows what it’ll say. The stone’s more for him and Sarah anyway, right? Abby’s not around to complain. _That’s it. “Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep.”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this story is by the spectacular bob_fish! See her illustrations [here](http://bob-fish.livejournal.com/58058.html)!

They can’t stay in the janitor’s closet very much longer without raising suspicions, and it’ll be lunchtime soon, so Roy tries manfully to ignore his incredible hard-on and just kisses Ed’s fingers and nose and eyelids until the boy’s sensible again. It takes a few agonizing minutes, which Roy decides to take as a compliment, before Ed gets his feet under him again, sliding back up the door he’d slumped down in post-orgasmic bliss. He pulls Roy up after him, draws him close, sucks in a sharp breath when Roy’s erection presses into his belly. “Sorry,” he murmurs, palming Roy through his pants. “Didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”  
  
Roy muffles a moan in Ed’s hair, allows himself a few gentle thrusts into that warm palm before he steels himself and pulls away. “We should…take this somewhere else. They’ll notice we’re both missing when they bring lunch.”  
  
Ed curses under his breath. “All right, your room then. Think you can make it ‘til after the food comes?” And there’s promise as well as sarcasm in his voice, so Roy just chuckles.  
  
“I do have fourteen years more experience than you do at these things.”  
  
“Shut up, you bastard, and try to act normal.”  
  
Then the door clicks, and Ed’s pulling him out into the hall, and a few moments later Ed’s asking a nurse if she can bring his lunch up to Roy’s room instead. “Some military business to discuss,” he says, in a vaguely pompous way that Roy’s sure is meant to be an imitation of him, and he hasn’t decided if he’s proud or insulted by the time Ed pulls him away again.  


 

***

  
He hides the tent in his pants under an artfully-draped blanket in his lap, which Ed tears away the moment the nurse leaves again. “The food’s going to get cold,” Roy murmurs, reaching out and finding Ed’s shoulders, sliding his fingertips from there up the sides of his neck.  
  
“We could eat first, if you’d rather,” Ed replies with an audible grin, but doesn’t follow through on the threat; instead he presses Roy back into the pillows and swings a leg over his hips, settling down onto him like sitting a horse.  
  
“I was imagining this,” Roy groans out, arching up against Ed’s warmth. “With the pillow…only we had less clothes on…”  
  
Ed shudders, and his hands trace down Roy’s side to pull loose the ties on his shirt. “I can handle that.”  
  
It’s tricky to get their clothes off while maintaining as much skin contact as possible, but some how they manage, kicking shirts and pants off onto the floor. When Ed straddles him again their cocks touch, Roy’s hard as a diamond and Ed’s already at half mast, and all Roy can do is sob out his thanks for that blessed friction. His hands ache from too much activity, but he can’t help pressing them to the taut curve of Ed’s backside; Ed slumps down over him, rolling their hips together, his hair drifting down to tickle Roy’s chest.  
  
In the dark as Roy is, it’s all sensation and sound; Ed’s quick breaths and quiet expletives, the trembling of his body before he gives in and plasters himself against Roy from lips to toes, the taste of his tongue. And, of course, the sweaty slide of their cocks, trapped between their stomachs in a pocket of body heat, is driving him relentlessly mad—  
  
Then Ed bites Roy’s bottom lip, gasping out his breath into Roy’s mouth. “Come on… _please_ —” he whines, high and trembly, and that’s all it takes.

 

  
***

  
Alphonse wakes stumbling out of his bed, _Brother, Brother, where’s Brother?_ before he even knows he’s not dreaming anymore. He vaguely feels the IV tear from his hand, hears monitors beeping, but those things seem unimportant; he pulls himself onto the bed opposite his, and it’s empty, cold, but at the very least it _smells_ like his brother, and that’s a start. Then there are people, nurses, and he struggles until a needle slides into his arm, and then he’s sleeping again, without dreams.  
  
When the world comes back, Ed is there, curled around him in the bed. Al hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but his brother must hear the change in his breathing, because he shifts a little and brushes Al’s hair back. “Hey.”  
  
“Brother.”  
  
“Yep. What happened? I came back to the room and the nurses were all over the place, and you were deep under already.”  
  
Alphonse tries to sort things out; he remembers waking, remembers panic, remembers the needle…thinks back farther, and slowly begins to remember the dream. “I had…a nightmare,” he says, growing more certain, and with the certainty comes a shudder; Ed wraps an arm tighter around him. “I couldn’t find you.”  
  
“Sorry,” Ed murmurs, and it’s guilt-laced. “I was…you wanna talk about it?”  
  
Al thinks he knows where his brother was, if that tone in his voice means anything, and he knows his brother. “I…”  
  
_I dreamed the night we tried to bring back Mom…I dreamed you lay there bleeding, limbs gone, but I still had my body, I was still a little boy. I dreamed I couldn’t carry you, couldn’t get you to Granny’s before you bled to death, I was too small, too weak, too flesh_ —  
  
“I don’t remember,” he murmurs. “I’m okay now, Brother.”  
  
Ed blows a breath into his hair. “Well…okay. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right here.”  
  
He’s about to tell his brother that he just woke up, he’s not tired yet, when there’s a knock on the door and one of the doctors steps in. He can’t quite remember which one this is, there have been so many, and he’s still a little blurry from the sedatives. It probably doesn’t matter; the man smiles at him gently.  
  
“Awake, I see. Feeling better?”  
  
“Yeah. Sorry I freaked out.”  
  
“Perfectly all right,” the doctor assures him. “No harm done. And some good news for you, Edward, Dr. Sullivan has cleared you for release tomorrow morning.”  
  
Ed’s whole body stiffens. “What? I can’t just leave Al here by himself!”  
  
The doctor looks momentarily surprised by his vehemence. “Edward, your brother will certainly be staying here for the next month, at least, possibly longer. We can’t keep you here all that time without medical cause. But,” he continues when Ed looks ready to argue, “I can arrange for you to be allowed in whenever you like, regardless of visiting hours. Your superior officer informed me some time ago that you’d most certainly ignore the rules, anyway.”  
  
Ed huffs, but doesn’t answer. The doctor just smiles, as though this response is expected, and moves for the door. “Get some more rest if you can, Alphonse.”  
  
“Sure…thank you,” he murmurs, snuggling back into his pillows and Ed’s chest. His brother is still silent—but Al can hear him thinking, anyway.  


 

***

  
They aren't expecting anyone to meet them at the station, so when Breda steps down onto the platform to find Maria Ross standing at attention, with an attendant holding the heavy board that serves as the station's wheelchair ramp, he's absurdly happy to see her.  
  
"Sirs!" she greets them, salute crisp but expression softer, and Havoc pokes his head from around Breda's bulk to grin.  It's all business for a few minutes, getting the wheelchair down off the train without mishap or waking Sarah in the shuffle, but when they're all settled on the platform she snaps to attention again.  
  
"I've been instructed to bring Lieutenant Havoc directly to the hospital for a preliminary meeting with Dr. Marcoh, and then to take Lieutenant Breda and his niece wherever they'd like to go."  
  
Heymans cuts his eyes over and down to catch Jean's expression; he's grinning, but there's a tightness in his face too, and his hands tighten on the wheel rims.  "We'll go with Havoc," he says, being sure to make it sound just a little like a pain in the ass.  "He's staying at my place anyway, 'til we get him an apartment, might as well save you an extra trip across the river."  
  
Jean raises an eyebrow at him, carefully nonchalant, except he's never really gotten the hang of hiding what he's thinking, so the gratitude leaks through his expression anyway.  Breda pretends to ignore it; Ross looks like she's biting her tongue to keep from grinning madly at them both.  


 

***

  
"Let me begin," Marcoh tells them, sounding older than he should, "by saying that this will not be a miracle cure."  
  
"Aw, rats," Jean says with a snap of his fingers, and the doctor cracks what passes for a smile.  
  
"I'd also like to point out that I've never tried nerve regeneration on a spinal injury before--so I can only give you the barest estimates of a timeline, or what to expect."  
  
Jean nods, slightly more serious.  "That's ok, doc.  One day at a time, right?"  
  
"Exactly, Lieutenant.  I'll be using the Stone to encourage nerve regeneration, and help it along the way.  Too much exposure to the Stone can be fatal, so your body will be doing most of the repair on its own, but I can give it a jump start that can't be achieved by normal medical means."  Heymans is surprised by how small the stone is, when Marcoh pulls it from his pocket, how innocuous it seems in spite of its startling color.  Sarah, who's been watching the proceedings with surprising calm from her carrier set next to Breda's chair, fixes on it with fascinated attention.  She tracks it with her eyes as Marcoh gestures, brows furrowing in an expression that suddenly reminds him of Alphonse in his new body.  Maybe he ought to visit Ed and Al again--it's only been a couple of days, but it feels like longer--  
  
"Hey.  Hey!"  Jean punches him lightly on the arm to get his attention.  "You still in there?"  
  
Breda blinks to clear his head.  Really he could use a very, very long nap, but Marcoh's watching him too, with that bland look doctors get when they think you're not taking care of yourself, so he forces his eyes to focus.  "Yeah."  
  
"You mind waiting around a little longer?  Doc said we can do the first treatment today, that way he can get to the General tomorrow morning."  
  
Heymans grins.  "Go for it, man.  Sooner we get you off your lazy ass, the better."  


 

***

  
The whole thing, Breda thinks, is deceptively simple.  More explanations from Marcoh (the process will be painful, he'll put Jean on medication to manage it, schedule him for physical therapy three times a week, another session with the Stone in perhaps a month's time).  Wheel him down the hall to an exam room, get him laid out on his stomach on the table.  He's got that fiercely set look on his face, like whey they were at the Academy and he had to cram for a Military History exam--hateful process, but necessary to move on and up.  
  
_Maybe we'll just forget about him finding his own place_ , Heymans decides, watching Marcoh palm the Stone and slide his hands appraisingly up Jean's spine, seeing the invisible line where feeling starts when Jean flinches from the cold of the doc’s fingers.  
  
Heymans rocks Sarah absently in her carrier, watches his best friend take a deep breath and blow it slowly out before the room is lit with the flickering, crackling release of alchemy.  


 

***

  
It would be hard to feel more satisfied than he does right now, Roy thinks. Nothing like a morning of sex with an extremely fit sixteen-year-old and a nice, hot shower (also with said sixteen-year-old, though somehow Ed had gotten a little shy and kept his hands mostly to himself) to make a man feel like life is good. Confusing, and possibly he’s gotten in over his head in a shockingly small span of time, but good.  
  
He’s finally eating his lunch, long since gone cold, when there’s a knock on the door.  
  
Ed’s gone and he’s dressed and decent, and really that’s all that’s required, so he calls “Come in!” and pauses in his meal to suss out his visitor. It only takes a moment—he’s been looking forward to hearing that voice for days.  
  
“You look well,” Doctor Marcoh says mildly, and Roy can’t help his grin.  
  
“I’d say the same, but…”  
  
“Well, let’s do something about that, shall we? I saw your subordinate earlier, straight from the train.”  
  
_They’re back_. “How did it go?”  
  
“He’s off to a good start. This first time was the hardest, took the most out of him, but it went as well as I could have hoped. He should start getting some feeling back in the next few days.”  
  
“That’s…thank you. That’s excellent to hear.”  
  
“I sent him home with his friend—the one who lost his sister.”  
  
_Breda. I ought to call him, as soon as I get the chance_. “How did he look?”  
  
“Like he hadn’t slept. But grief and babies will do that to a man.”  
  
“I suppose it will.”  
  
There’s a beat of silence, when everything Roy wants to ask builds slowly in his chest, his eagerness to have this over and done with and get back to _work_ , and it must show on his face, because Marcoh chuckles softly.  
  
“Well, then. Let’s take a look at your eyes.” Then there are calm fingers on his face, pushing his bangs back, pulling his eyelids up one after the other. “There’s no way to know exactly what I’ll find until I’m feeling things out,” Marcoh tells him mildly, and Roy resists the urge to nod.  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“And you remember your promise?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Good.” One of the hands leaves his skin for a moment—to get the Stone from a pocket?—and returns. “Brace yourself,” the doctor murmurs; a moment later, the crackle of alchemy against his skin and then behind his eyes, inside his head. A moment after that, _agony_.  


 

***

  
On the other side, as he slowly comes back to his senses, Marcoh is wrapping gauze around his face.  
  
“…take this off for a few hours, give the nerve some time to start working again. Your hands may be a little sore, but they’ll be good as new shortly. I’ll schedule you with the hospital optometrist tomorrow, you’ll need glasses until your vision improves.”  
  
“…Glasses?”  
  
Marcoh chuckles. “And _wear them_ , son. Consider it part of your promise.”  
  
“If you say so,” Roy murmurs, but he’s too tired to argue—now that the pain has mostly subsided, he finds himself drained.  
  
“Get some rest, you’ve got a few hours before they’ll wake you up for dinner, you can take the gauze off then.”  
  
Then the doctor’s hands are gone, and his footsteps move away, toward the door. “Thank you,” Roy calls after him, and it’s hardly adequate, but he’s not sure what else to say.  
  
“Your hard work is the only thanks I need, General.”  


 

***

  
Dinner and Edward arrive together— _another meal destined to get cold before I eat it_ —but Roy can’t say he really minds; the prospect of taking the gauze from his eyes, of opening them and finding out what comes of it, is nerve-wracking. Ed is subdued, but his touch is fond.  
  
“Okay, that’s it. Go ahead.”  
  
His first thought is _bright!_ and his second is _I can see that it’s bright!_ and his third is _Ed_ , whose face is much closer to Roy’s than is strictly necessary. He’s a blur of tan and gold, but there are two bright eyes, a nose, a mouth—a mouth Roy reaches for, and catches with his own.  


 

***

  
Later, sprawled on his back with Ed curled into his side, Roy stares at the ceiling and smiles. “Now…was there a reason you were coming to visit? You couldn’t have known about my eyes yet, unless Marcoh was down to see you.”  
  
“No, I…well, they’re discharging me tomorrow.”  
  
Roy looks down at Ed’s head, a blonde blob resting on his arm, just because he can. “That’s excellent news!”  
  
Ed shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.”  
  
“Ed. You’ve been so quiet.”  
  
Edward smashes his nose into Roy’s shoulder. “I…I like this thing, with you.”  
  
“I like it too,” Roy murmurs. “Quite a lot.”  
  
“But it’s kind of all of a sudden, you know, a couple of days ago I’d never even…well, not never, I guess, I’m not blind, but I mean…and you…well, and Al, he had another nightmare, while I was up here with you, he was looking for me, ripped his IV right out. I don’t…I don’t want to leave him alone, but they said I can’t stay except hanging out as a visitor, and I don’t have anywhere to go anyway, the dorms are a mess—”  
  
“Easy, easy, Ed.” He pulls him in a little tighter against his side. There are too many things in that stuttered monologue to sort through, but the tone of it sends a little sliver of ice through his chest and out along his limbs.  
  
“I just, I don’t know if I can get into something like this, with you, right now. I don't know what I’m _doing_.”  
  
And Roy finds, faced with this uncertainty, that he _cannot_ let Ed go. Not yet. Not until…until he knows…what this even _is_. What this could be, though he feels an ass for even thinking—well, Maes is laughing his head off somewhere, and Roy tries not to think about that, just focuses on Ed, and his worries, and what can be done to assuage them.  
  
“I might…have an idea,” Roy finds himself saying, even as the plan is coming together in his mind.  
  
“Yeah?” Ed says, doubtful and hopeful at once. Roy doesn’t give himself a chance to think twice about it.  
  
“Stay at my place. While Alphonse is recovering. And I can have him moved up here, to the other bed. He won’t be by himself until they release me too, and you’ll have a place to stay, and…well, I like thinking of you there, for me to…to come home to.”  
  
There’s a moment of terrifying silence, stillness, when Roy thinks he shouldn’t have said anything at all, or perhaps that the spirit of Maes Hughes possessed him and now he should take it all back—until Ed props himself up on an elbow, looking at him intently.  
  
“You mean that? All of that?”  
  
Roy is both surprised and entirely not by the answer. “Yes…yes, I do.”  
  
Ed watches him a moment longer, and Roy feels a little as if he’s dreaming—but it’s a very, very good dream, and it’s not as though he’s really jumping into this, they’ve known each other for years—and then Ed smiles, bright as the sun, and Roy’s so damn _glad_ he can see it.  
  
“Okay. That sounds like a good idea to me.”  


 

***

  
Jean grumbles all the way home in the car, as usual, and Heymans ignores him, also as usual. It was a good session today, according to the therapist, and that’s all he really needs to hear. Jean is on the mend.  
  
“You complain an awful lot for a guy who took an actual step today,” Ross comments from the driver’s seat, and Jean scowls, then lets it go and gives a tiny smile.  
  
“Yeah, well. Even with the bars, it’s fuckin’ _hard_.”  
  
They’ve got a routine for PT days, now; Ross or Brosch or maybe Catalina drives them home, and there’s banter (and flirting, when it’s Catalina) and politics. Get Jean out of the car and into the chair, find the keys, get the door open.  
  
Sometimes Sarah’s asleep, and Ed’s just reading in the quiet apartment. Sometimes he’s reading to her, those cardboard baby books, pointing out colors and shapes and animals and things, and she stares at them like all the mysteries of the universe will be revealed. Sometimes they’re just playing, with toys or maybe Ed’s ponytail, which he scowls about but secretly seems to like.  
  
Breda’s not exactly surprised that the kid’s so good with her—he took care of Al all this time, after all—but half the time he just remembers what a tiny little twerp Ed was the first time he showed up at Headquarters, and the look on his face now when he holds a giggling Sarah high over his head seems awfully grown up.  
  
Today, though, the baby is conked out, and Ed leaps up from the couch the minute they walk in. “Hey guys, how was PT, nothing new or exciting here, sorry, I gotta go, stuff to do before I pick up Roy!” And from one second to the next he’s gone.  
  
Jean chuckles. “Um…I’m just not gonna think too hard about the boss being _that_ excited to get the General home.”  
  
Breda snorts. “Me neither.” He’s got enough to think about—Jean’s already on the phone ordering delivery, because that’s how they roll on PT nights, and though Sarah’s asleep she still closes her fingers hard around Heymans’ finger when he tickles her palm. He thinks of Abby, and it doesn’t hurt quite as much today, and he smiles.  


 

***

  
Roy leaves the hospital just around dinnertime, largely intact. His head is killing him from not wearing the glasses everyone keeps nagging him about, but he can live with that; his hands are entirely healed, which is a relief.  
  
His vision is blurred, but it’s _there_ , and that’s really all that matters, because now he can see Ed. Ed leading him around by the elbow as though he doesn’t trust Roy to use his eyes just yet, Ed shepherding him around the room as they say goodbye to Al and assure him (about a hundred times, but less than Ed might want to if he and Roy didn’t have a house, a whole _house_ of privacy waiting for them), Ed settling next to Roy in the back seat of the car as Riza drives them home.  
  
Drives them home, because for the moment, it’s Ed’s home too, and that almost trumps the being-able-to-see-again.  
  
Riza drops them off in the driveway, and Ed opens Roy’s door for him, of all things. Tugs him out of the car, waves to Riza and drags him up the walk.  
  
“Edward, I really can see again. There’s no need to manhandle me.”  
  
Ed blinks up at him, then lets go of his elbow as if burned, a flush spotting his cheeks and staining the tips of his ears. “Right. Well, you know. I got used to it.”  
  
Roy pats his pocket for his keys with a smile, then realizes Ed has them— _have to make a set for him_ —so he pulls his lover back over, shoves a hand in his pocket to get them. Ed chuckles and presses in against his side as Roy unlocks the door.  
  
Things are mostly as he left them, and he’s oddly pleased by the changes he notices immediately; the place smells like Ed, like books and coffee and takeout food that must’ve been his lunch, and faintly like the oil for the automail. It’s not a way he ever imagined his home would smell, but he likes it. It smells alive.  
  
He touches the wall in the entryway as he toes off his boots, touches the back of the sofa as he walks past, just to fix himself in this space that’s been so active in his absence, and Edward fidgets out of the corner of his eye until Roy takes a few steps further, glances into the kitchen, does a double-take.  
  
There’s a tablecloth on the table, pale blue with wide dark pinstripes, and for a moment he thinks Ed went out and _bought_ a tablecloth, until he realizes that’s the rectangle of folded-up fabric that’s been sitting in a bottom drawer since the day he moved in.  
  
And there are candles—those he _knows_ Ed must’ve gotten someplace else, Roy has never romanced a woman (or a man, for that matter) with candles in his own house—and two places precisely set, one at the head of the table and the other across the corner from it, close enough that their knees will touch when they sit.  
  
On the counter, a bag of takeout bearing the logo of Roy’s absolute favorite Cretan restaurant.  
  
“Ed,” he breathes, and the tone of it must convey his delighted surprise, because all at once his arms are full of gold, words pressed into his chest.  
  
“Welcome home.”  


 

***

  
As it turns out, the candles get dangerously in the way, so he claps his hands and sucks the oxygen away from them; the food grows cold, but he can fix that with alchemy too, later. All that’s important at the moment is Ed, sprawled naked on his back across the tablecloth— _“We can just bleach it later, come on,”_ —and panting, his hair a messy halo around his head. His metal foot is hooked over Roy’s hip, the flesh one at his shoulder, toes brushing his temple and his ear and burying in his hair with surprising dexterity.

Roy leans over him and their cocks knock gently together; Ed moans, soft and breathless, and bright blonde eyelashes flutter down against his cheeks. His body tightens for a moment, clamps down around Roy’s fingers inside him, and Roy almost loses it right there. It takes everything he has to pull his hand away, to fumble more lube onto his fingers and his cock as Ed’s eyes slit open again to fix on him, heated and trusting.  
  
Ed’s hands find his and grip tight as Roy presses in, slides home in one slow stroke.  
  
“I love you,” Ed sings, too caught up to be embarrassed, to old for his age. It floats so easily off his tongue, like it’s just as easy to say those words as it is to call him a lazy degenerate bastard.  
  
“Ed,” is all Roy can manage in reply; now he’s the young one, turning his head to hide his face in his new lover’s flesh ankle.  
  
_I’m pretty sure I love you too._


End file.
